


Celeste, Maria, and Sophia

by Seethedawn



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Are you the good guys or the bad guys?, Blood, Death, Depends on the century..., Drowning, F/M, Gen, History Fic, Immortal family, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Violence, bottle episode
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26159032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seethedawn/pseuds/Seethedawn
Summary: On the morning of November 7, 1872, theMary Celesteset sail from New York, bound for Genoa, Italy, manned by a crew of eight, and joined by the Captain’s wife and their two-year-old daughter.Less than a month later, the ship was discovered five hundred miles west of Portugal, floating adrift. The lifeboat was missing and the crew was never recovered.What madness drives a Captain to abandon a sea-worthy ship full of valuable cargo, tethering the lives of his family and crew to the mercies of the Atlantic?
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 43
Kudos: 60





	1. The Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three developments crucial to understanding the fate of the _Mary Celeste_.

First,

It is 1811 and Thomas Ashe is exploring the archipelago Azores. This is Portuguese dominion still, but things go poorly on the continent. He stands atop a hill and looks out over the wide Atlantic. A thousand miles to the west of Portugal's coast and only two thousand from American shores. Just think of what use the British Empire could make of such a possession.

The guide has a story to share of this place. He points to the horizon and says that this view stole the Devil's breath. 

Ashe is collecting tales such as this; he hopes to publish his notes of the venture, join the ranks of the great British travelogues. 

The guide goes on:

Long ago, a Devil encased in iron was brought from the mainland. Frightened by an unnatural storm, sailors cast the Devil overboard, exactly eighty-eight nautical miles due South of this place. Thus, they stole breath from the Devil. 

Ever superstitious, these Catholics.

But, he makes a note. Good for the book, to include local legends and the like. 

Not so very far away, nails break and grow endlessly anew, while water swallows silent screams. 

_A History of the Azores_ , is published in 1813.1

The book makes no great impact upon the literary scene of Europe. Partially because it is dull, but moreso unlucky timing; Napoleon's once inexorable tide is turning and certainly more worthy volumes are produced on that matter. 

After all, life is entirely too short to subject oneself to an Englishman's travel itinerary...

* * *

Second,

The true problem is air supply, Benoit muses, as the bells ring and panicked people rush toward the mine. 

He himself is a convalescent, having arrived with the French navy for the siege at Saigon and immediately taking ill, therefore unable to physically help digging the unfortunate miners out. 

But, he puts his mind to the task. 

Some sort of apparatus, he supposes, a supply of oxygen separate from the unbreathable environment of a collapsed or flooded mine. The difficulty is controlling the pressure of the oxygen. It does no good to send unpressurized canisters down; in order to hold a potentially life-saving amount of air, the canister must be pressurized. But, how to ensure that the release of pressurized air would not simply overwhelm and burst the lungs, killing the recipient more quickly even than coal dust? 

It is 1860 when he solves it - the answer is a regulator, which opens the valve only on the intake of breath. 

Four years later, it is Auguste who sets upon the potential maritime applications. The same principles of oxygen supply would surely apply underwater, he suggests.

The collaboration is a resounding success. Their underwater diving equipment becomes the first available for public manufacture and distribution around the world, and the French military pays them handsomely to continue to improve upon the initial design.2

And so Benoit leaves behind the miserable view of a crowded Saigon mine. 

Such is the might of mankind's natural domination - even the bottom of the ocean is now within their grasp…

* * *

Third,

The Union restored, Emancipation proclaimed; the people rejoice and immortals nap. 

It does no good, they have found after long experience, to depart an area as soon as the fighting ends. It drags on the soul. They need time to live in peace, explore the lands, meet the people. For all that their wounds heal with speed, only quiet and rest are so regenerative for the spirit. 

And so they linger, staying at the rented home of a recent British immigrant. 

While they all have nightmares, only Sebastien dreams of deep water. 

Andromache had held out hope, until Sebastien's dreaming, that Quynh may have since found true rest. Now they know better and it is a heavy weight. 

Sebastien tries to keep the lingering horror to himself and he has been well served by this borrowed house; an extensive library and much time for browsing. 

Tonight he does not wish to continue with any pleasure reading. He seeks something distracting enough to keep his mind, but not so interesting as to stop him returning to bed when the sense of drowning ebbs. 

He makes his selection easily enough, but on the second point, fails abysmally. 

* * *

1\. This is a [real book](https://play.google.com/books/reader?id=7ScAAAAAQAAJ&hl=en&pg=GBS.PP1), and the [Amazon Reviews](https://www.amazon.com/History-Azores-Western-Thomas-Ashe/dp/127570722X) for it are great. Who buys a book written 200 years ago and goes back to complain like this?

2\. I have to confess, the diving equipment [described here](https://www.divinghelmet.nl/divinghelmet/1860_Rouquayrol_Denayrouze_2.html) would have still needed a supply of air from the surface, but I have hit a wall in understanding how an open supply of air would work attached to a pressurized canister? But an air hose does not suit my purpose, so I am going to wave my authorial wand and plead forgiveness before the court of anachronism. (The air supply leads wouldn't have been long enough anyway...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm super excited about this :)


	2. The Voyage I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being delayed by weather, the _Mary Celeste_ gets underway at last.

_November 7th, 1872_

_Warm greetings from aboard the Mary Celeste,_

_I am sure you are surprised to hear from me so soon! The weather beyond the harbor delays our departure. It has been really very dreary but at least I have the chance to post one more letter._

_Now that I have had a few days on board, I can give you a more accurate estimation of the ship and crew. Our quarters are very comfortable and private. Our cabin naturally is located at the very rear, just below the helm's deck. Benjamin has quite spoiled me, there is even a small piano and once we are at sea the windows will be lovely, I am sure._

_We are quite separated from the rest of the crew, their quarters being at the very forward end of the ship. Further below is the galley, where food is prepared and stored, and various store rooms for things like rope and materials for different types of repairs. At the very bottom is our cargo hold, which is so full of barrels it is almost impossible to inspect them. This is for the best, as I am told a heavier ship is preferable, especially in case of poor weather as the weight reduces the power of the waves when they hit._

_I have now been introduced to all of the crew and it has been very interesting to observe the politics among the men. I will give you a brief description now, so you have some frame of reference for all my gossiping when next we speak._

_There is Mr. Albert Richardson, who you and I both know through his dear wife. He is first mate to Benjamin and I feel quite secure and welcomed by him. As the ship's first, he is charged with carrying out all of Benjamin's orders and he is the only other man with a private cabin. Mr. Richardson supervises the cargo and all of the ship's equipment. Naturally he and Benjamin like each other quite well, so I anticipate a great deal of time in his company._

_Next there is Mr. Andrew Gilling as the second mate. At only twenty-five, he strikes me as quite a young man for such a responsible position, though I am told he was well recommended. As the ship_ _'s second, Mr. Gilling is responsible for keeping discipline among the crew. He was rather busy when we were introduced, but I am sure I will get a better sense of him in time._

_There is Mr. Edward Head as the steward, who will be doing the cooking and cleaning and laundering. He made a very pleasing impression, and I intend to offer my assistance as we have installed my sewing machine. Hopefully I will be able to contribute in this small way, at least._

_Finally there are four crewmen to do all the rest of it. I met them each only very briefly. They seem to know each other well already and so I imagine they will keep to themselves. To my eye, they seem quietly capable and Benjamin does not anticipate any trouble if they continue as they have begun._

_One of them is a Moor and his English is quite fluid, though when I was moved to compliment him on it he made a peculiar face and called in his strange language to another crewman. I cannot shake the sense that they were talking of me while I stood before them, but I hesitate to take the matter to Benjamin. I wish to avoid making a poor impression on these sailors before even our voyage has begun._ 1

_They have all been kept busy these last two days securing endless knots or scrubbing and painting just about every inch of deck. Benjamin and Mr. Richardson feel very strongly that sailors must not be left idle when on duty. Though I wish to be useful, I do not envy them these tasks!_

_Sophia is getting steady on her legs and she longs to make a proper exploration of the ship under her own power. Benjamin has been darling, carrying her about the decks. As you know, we Briggs are folk of the sea. It comes naturally to her._

_Tell Arthur I make great dependence on the letters I shall get from him, and I will try to remember anything that happens on the voyage which he would be pleased to hear._ 2

_I will write of our safe arrival in Genoa, we are expected early in December. Hopefully my next letter shall be with you by the new year!_

_Your loving daughter,_ _Sarah_

Sarah sets aside her pen, already practiced enough to slot it into the special groove in the desk to keep it from rolling away. Outside the cabin the ship is alive with muffled movements; Sophia has slept later than usual today, though she is stirring in her crib now. 

Beyond the harbor the skies are clearing. It is time to be underway.

* * *

Edward dithers on the deck. If only he had thought to ask when he delivered their morning meal. 

He has certainly been noticed by now, lurking around the Captain's quarters while only his wife and young daughter reside inside. Better to go ahead and knock, rather than slink away. 

Propriety aside, he knows that his own wife would have appreciated the gesture. And so he knocks, three times soudly against the wood. 

The glazing around the door is intended to preserve the family’s privacy; they are thick, misted panes, decorative more than to spread light. Not that Edward has been trying to peer in through the glass - he has turned to survey the deck while he waits. 

Edward has met Sarah Briggs several times now and, though he has the sense of her as a kind woman, she naturally makes him very nervous, being married to their Captain. 

She appears harried by the unexpected knock, her daughter squirming on one hip. 

"Hello?" she greets him, confused. "Did you need the tray? Sophia hadn't quite finished..."

He doesn't want to be crowding at her door, so he takes a step back, moving with the rocking waves. "Morning Mrs. Briggs. No, uh, I have a letter for the post and I wondered if you had anything, as I'm already going?" 

"Oh, yes, I do!" she bustles away, long skirts whoosh-whooshing as she goes. She hasn't closed the door on him, leaving him with a clear view into the chamber, but he's seen the Captain's rooms a few times already - the piano, the infant’s crib, fine rugs, and a spacious writing desk separate from their dining table. There is even a large decorated partition dividing the space, presumably to obscure their bed. A far cry from the crew's quarters to be sure, but Captain Briggs owns the boat and he pays well, so Edward doesn't get resentful. 

She returns and hands him a fairly thick envelope, address and stamp in place. 

“I do appreciate it,” she says. “It is to my mother, it would have been a shame to forget.”

“Pleased to help,” he assures her. 

He should move along now he has collected her letter, but a pair of big, dark eyes are watching him. 3

"Good afternoon, Miss Sophia," he says, tipping his cap at the little girl. 

"Are you going to be polite and say hello, Sophia?" prompts the mother, jostling her child slightly. Instead, Sophia curls closer into her mother's shoulder. "No? Well, she's a little shy, yet."

"Ah," he says, waving her apology away, "she'll be climbing the rigging in no time."

He has a flash or worry - should he explain what he means by rigging? He's halfway turning over his shoulder to point out the mess of ropes spider-webbing up and down the masts when she laughs. 

"Oh I'm well aware of that! Last I accompanied my husband on this voyage, our son was four, and he ran me half ragged across the decks."

Edward laughs, pleasantly surprised. She's a sailor, then, of a sort. 

"Is your son not with us too?" He regrets it as soon as he asks, cringing slightly. 

"Oh no, he is staying with my mother so as to keep his schooling, though I shall miss him terribly." 

It is a long time since Edward had much to say about schooling and he feels awkward for having broached the subject at all. 

"Do you have children?" she asks politely, shifting the squirming little one in her arms. 

"No, not yet anyway. My wife and I married only this summer."

He hopes to have a great many children, especially if he can get a permanent place, either with Captain Briggs or by his reference. 

Mrs. Briggs offers her congratulations and the little girl saves them a further descent into awkwardness by becoming loudly bored with their conversation. Edward excuses himself and flees across the deck. He feels his path tracked by eyes from the helm. 

He heads down the hatch to the crew's quarters. It's a tight space, dominated by hammocks hanging in sets of two across the narrow space. One for each of them: the four crew, Edward himself, and lastly one for Gilling, the second mate. A series of trunks run along the inner wall, where they store their belongings, keeping everything stowed out of the way. There is a table with a bench attached to the hull, and portholes bringing in a low light. It is all very nicely laid out, certainly Edward has worked on older ships with much less pleasant quarters. The _Mary Celeste_ was gutted and remade entirely last year. Used to haul coal, he remembers. 

Two of the crew are seated at the table, their heads bent in deep conversation, though Edward can't place the language. Their speech has has a slow cadence, quiet but intense, so he hesitates despite not having the first idea what they might be saying. They wave him in and fall silent, staring at each other. 

Edward had hoped, in an unassuming sort of way, to find friendships among the crew. It had been a quiet blow to learn that the others had been hired as a group; the four of them had sailed together before, and their conversations were more often than not utterly unintelligible. 

He expects a lonely voyage, now. After all, he is hardly going to become friendly with the ship's officers. 

One of the crew is visibly asleep in his hammock - the Frenchman. Certain this would be frowned upon if discovered, Edward keeps his eyes down and hurries to his trunk. It has been only two days and already he has the sense that this Frenchman is a drunkard; when on land, in any case. He knows many men with this habit, but there are strict rules of conduct while the ship is at sea, so he doesn’t bother to be troubled. 

He collects his own letter and stands, hesitant again. No sense in rudeness, at least, even if they seem bound and determined to leave him unacknowledged. 

He clears his throat to get their attention, then speaks. "I'm taking post to the dock, I can carry yours also, if you have any to go? We will likely be away this afternoon." 

"We have no letters," says the Italian. Edward half turns to survey the sleeping man. "Nor does he. Nor Arian, but thank you." 

It makes a certain sense, Edward supposes. It seems they are all from Europe and Africa; what letters they have would be best posted from the dock in Genoa. 

A strange group to have come together, a Moor among them at that. Edward would be interested in hearing their stories, if he thought them receptive to being asked. 

Feeling stupid for having offered to play mailman, Edward hurries back up the hatch and onto the deck. 

He just needs to disembark and dash off to the mailbox at the north end of the dock, but he has to check in before he leaves the ship. 

Gilling is the nearest officer he sees, and Edward's preference. The ship's second mate is around Edward's own age, and as the lowest officer he has the most contact with the crew. Unfortunately, familiarity is not always for the best - he's a real ratbag about the letters. The captain must be frustrated by the delay, Edward supposes, and shit rolls down hill. 

"You're cutting it quite close. Captain wants us to raise anchor this afternoon."

"Twenty minutes, less than!" Edward near-pleads, clutching tight the last letter his dear wife will see from him for five months. 

Gilling appears unconvinced. "There is much yet to be done, I'm not sure we can spare our steward..."

"I've a letter from the Captain's wife, to her mother. Someone's going to have to take it to the post, even if you can't spare me." 

Gilling sighs. "Fine, then. With haste though."

 _Bastard_ , Edward thinks, disembarking. Three men idle below and _we cannot spare our steward_... Six weeks surrounded by foreign speech, a drunkard, and a bastard. 

But he is a husband now, with a wife to provide for. Edward gives his envelope a discrete embrace before dropping it for collection then makes his _haste_ back to the ship. He knows it will make her very happy, to receive this surprise letter. 

* * *

For two days, Andromache has stalked the length and breadth of this ship like an animal caught in a trap, cursing every sodden plank as she goes. 

Three hundred years of waiting, and now - rain. 

How many times will Quynh suffer drowning in these two days extra? 

Andromache draws a long breath through her lips, nothing gasping or outwardly noticeable, but she holds it as the pressure builds in her throat and her heartbeat begins to thump in her ears. 

She releases the breath, slow and even. _That's one_ , she thinks. But that way lies madness, and she cannot let herself slip. Quynh cannot afford it either. Not when at last they have a plan. 

The Captain is on deck, so Andromache quits her pacing and stands at attention. The ship's three officers are conducting a final deck inspection - excellent, they mean to be underway. Briggs acknowledges her with a nod, but doesn’t engage. Why would he? She’s crew; an able bodied sailor hired at ten dollars a week to sail his ship and deliver his cargo. But they did not choose Briggs at random, not at all; highly regarded as a capable, fair, and rational Captain, Briggs sails with a very small crew, a valuable cargo, and a favorable course, with his family on board to boot. 

He had been in contact with a potential crew, represented by a man called Arian. It had been a matter of little difficulty to insert themselves into the situation.4

Briggs surprises her with a direct question. "Arian, what do you suppose? She's sea-worthy and ready to make way?" 

"Aye, Captain!" Andromache wholeheartedly agrees. 

"Then we are in accord," he says, clapping his hands and turning back to his officers. "Oh! Before we give the order, Sarah had said something about a letter, could you-?"

The second mate steps forward, interjecting smoothly, "It's taken care of. I had the steward collect and post it this morning."

"Excellent, thank you, Gilling. We are away, then - go ahead and call all hands!"

Briggs strides off to take the helm. Richardson rings the large brass bell attached to the main mast, summoning all sailors to deck. 

Josef and Nicolas are the first up, followed by Sebastien, still looking a little bleary. The steward emerges too, but he hangs back, here to observe rather than assist. 

Josef, Nicolas, Sebastien, the steward and the second mate line up on deck alongside Andromache, ready for the order. She feels the thrum of it under her skin, like she's bracing for battle. 

_Finally_. For too long she has been idle while Quynh’s need was desperate. 

The first mate surveys them each for a moment, then calls the order. _Ready the sails!_ \- and they're off in a flurry of movement. 

As ever, Andromache takes the first position, leading the others up the main mast. The rope ladders are coarse and damp and even with the weather calmed, she's quickly swaying in the wind. Being slighter, she and Nicolas climb past the mainsail's beam, up to the smaller topsails. Josef and Sebastien fan out below them along the mainsail. On deck the two mates are unmooring them from the dock.

Sebastien and Andromache have the port side, Josef and Nicolas the starboard, and they begin the process of untying the sails. Each knot is work to undo and once the rope is free they must tie each line away to keep them from tangling in the wind. It's not a speedy process and her fingers ache with cold. 

She and Nicolas are almost sixty feet in the air by now, height amplifying the roll of the waves dangerously. She turns to grin at Nicolas, an old lightness overtaking her - once she had loved sailing - he returns her smile only briefly and leans out to look down and check on Josef before returning to his work. 

It is colder, suddenly. They are not united in this plan, in fact Andromache had been reduced to swearing she would go without them, if they could not find it within themselves to agree. Only Sebastien is wholeheartedly with her. Anything to stop the dreaming. 

She swallows regret and shuffles further along the beam to her next knot. She has no other choice.

Andromache has never feared heights, she's sure-footed and strong, but it's a relief to have her boots back on the deck. 

Josef and Sebastien are slower to follow, though their route held fewer ties. The mechanics of ocean sailing have been essentially the same for a very long time, and Sebastien has had the least of all their chances to learn it. They are all three going to need to work to compensate for his slack. 

She leads Sebastien to the port side and they untie and brace the ropes holding the mainsails in place. The first mate has joined Nicolas and Josef on the starboard side and Gilling takes up in front of Andromache. 

At Richardson's order they relax their line, while the other side begins hauling their line in. The captain calls the angle from his view at the helm on the higher deck. Andromache can see the flag at the fore, showing them which way the wind is hitting. 

As a team they work to slack and tighten respectively, and above them the sails turn toward the wind. There is a powerful jolt as the wind catches the wide sails, Andromache can feel the strength of it fighting against her grip, but the three of them hold fast. 

The first mate calls the next order and they set about tying down the lines. Whenever the wind changes they'll need resetting, but for now they move to the next set. The ship is moving now and they have the wind, so it's more effort to wrangle the topsails, but they get tied down to match the mains.

Again Andromache leads the way as they climb the foremast and repeat the task of releasing the sails. The rocking is more intense this time and wind is sharper though the large mainsail to their back blocks the worst of it. 

Andromache's shoulders burn with prolonged effort, but there's no time to catch their breath. Again they assemble, three and three, to set the foresails; loosing the port side and hauling in the starboard until the angle is right. The wind catches with another mighty tug and their speed ticks up again while the ropes resist being tied in place. 

Richardson sends them with Gilling to release and set the series of smaller triangle sails at the front along the jib, then he goes up to the higher deck to join the captain, who is standing aside his wife and delighted daughter. 

There's no rest still, even with the sails secure. Gilling walks behind them, observing while the four of them tie and coil every length of rope across the deck, stowing them safely against the rails. 

The ship rumbles and jolts below their feet as they settle in at speed. They’re still close to harbor, so they can’t relax - it’s a high traffic area and they need to be ready to reduce speed or change direction with very little notice. The order comes down to measure the knots and the bell rings to set the watch. 

The knots are a two-person job and unsurprisingly Josef and Nicolas volunteer. Andromache takes first watch, leaving Sebastien on deck to manage the ropes and await instructions. 

She clambers around the two masts and under the jib until she’s as far forward as can be. The water is dark below, the wind is sharp and cold, and there are clouds on the horizon. Still, Andromache breathes easier now that they are in motion. 

This will be a hard labor, she knows. Harder and less familiar than any week-long battle. And there is discord among their group. For three centuries now, Josef and Nicolas have kept up their close watch - she thinks sometimes they might have left her company, if not for their pity and a notion of destiny. They are here now out of love for Quynh more than faith in Andromache. And Sebastien, still fresh with the wounds of his grief, too young to have any sense of what she asks him to risk.

But Andromache does not ask them to go where she would not lead. In that she has remained steadfast. Her eyes pass across choppy water and settle on the eastern horizon. 

She is not prone to uncertainty and she will not dwell in that space, especially as each breath of wind carries them closer. All will be forgiven, right and whole once more, when this task is complete. 

With a heavy bounce and splash they crest their first true wave on open ocean - the maiden voyage of the _Mary Celeste_. Face splattered with salt water, Andromache grins. 

_We are coming, Quynh._

* * *

1 I spent a lot of time researching and thinking about Joe's place and experience on the ship. I'm going to have non-immortals refer to him as a "Moor", because my current understanding is that this isn't necessarily a slur (nuance and context apply, obviously), but then have it taper off as they get used to his presence. Joe's specific 'otherness' will be plot relevant at one point, but while I tagged for Period-Typical Racism, it's not a theme I'm going to lean in on. I hope it doesn't make anyone uncomfortable.

2 This is a line from the actual letter Sarah Briggs sent out while the ship was delayed at Staten Island. In all likelihood, it was the last communication seven-year-old Arthur Briggs got from his parents, which is sad enough that I thought it deserved acknowledgment. The quote comes from Charles Fey, a historian who used their personal letters etc. in _The Story of the "Mary Celeste"._

3 Sophia Briggs was a real little girl, she had her second birthday about a month before boarding the ship. In reality, she likely died at sea with her family and the other crew members. Her experiences and death matter to me deeply, partially because I have a two-year-old myself. So, from the get-go, I want to be upfront that in this story Sophia will be exposed to dangerous situations, but she will always be with someone who cares about her and that she survives unharmed.

4 The four men who I have replaced in this story, who likely died with everyone else on board, were Arian (who’s name Andromache steals), Gottleib, Volkert, and Boz. In the investigations into the _Mary Celeste_ , they were suspected of mutiny and murder, but as they never turned up and character witnesses came forward in their defense (not to mention the fact that nothing was stolen), nothing came of the theory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boo, exposition is hard. I'm having a lot of fun though and deeply appreciate anyone reading ♡


	3. The Voyage II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew of the _Mary Celeste_ settle in for an uneventful voyage.

Nicolas slides easily into the rigorous routine of life as a working member of a crew at sea. The bell rings every second hour, marking the day's passage. The mates whistle to draw them to deck when the wind changes and the sails need adjusting. They work through the day, cleaning, knotting, unknotting, sewing, scraping, scrubbing, mopping. The crew comes together for meals and in the evening an hour or so of leisure, sharing terrible coffee under an ocean of stars before splitting into teams; two to watch and two to bed. 

Of course the labor is hard, the air is cold, the sun is fierce, and the food is awful, but a hopeful light has sparked in Andromache's eye and even Sebastien's misery seems to have loosened its grip, if only during daylight hours. Josef wanders the deck barefoot, in a loose white shirt with the sunlight bouncing off his almond skin. 

Nicolas could be happy, if not for the situation with Josef. They must watch themselves constantly, on guard against habits ingrained through centuries. They cannot speak freely to one another, cannot reach out and touch, cannot even really watch each other as they usually would. Hardest of all, they cannot sleep cocooned together as they wish, straining the capabilities of their flimsy hammocks. 

When faced with similar situations in times past, it becomes a game - lingering looks and slippery touches, winks and grins and anticipation. 

With a few highly memorable exceptions early in their shared history, Nicolas and Josef do not tend toward arguments on serious matters. It happens rarely, between them, but when it does, they are like an unstoppable force and an immovable object. 

If Nicolas has his mind made up, when he _knows_ how to proceed, he is immovable. If Josef feels passionately about something, he is unstoppable. 

When Andromache had laid out her plan, heard their objections, and informed them that she meant to go anyway, Nicolas became immovable - he would set aside his reservations and accompany Andromache. 

The decision settled into his bones, sure and absolute. It is what he owes to Quynh, to Andromache, to Sebastien, even. 

He had looked to Josef, expecting to meet a matching expression of weary acceptance, only to see the set of his shoulders, the furrow of his brow - defiance, and beyond it, fear. 

He met Josef's eye and knew, knew, that Josef had reached a separate, unstoppable conclusion. 

The _Mary Celeste_ may well be one for the books, made all the worse for their close quarters and constant company.

Moments where they can steal a clandestine moment together, instead of more _enjoyable_ pursuits, are instead spent in dispute, sad lingering gazes across the room replacing customary winks and grins. 

But Josef will not relent, just as Nicolas will not be swayed, and so they spend their stolen moments arguing in circles as the hourglass empties and the point of no return approaches. 

They make no effort to avoid each other, though, and Nicolas welcomes the company when Richardson sends Josef to join him in adding a coat of tar to the underside of the yawl. The yawl, the ship's single,, very large rowboat, usually hangs above the deck, suspended between the two large masts. Today they have it upside down on the deck in front of the massive bilge pumps, and they sit with a gurgling pot of heated tar between them as they paint a fresh coat, to ensure it stays watertight. 

The task is unpleasant and the air is chilly, but the sun is shining above them and wind is not so piercing in their current situation. 

They speak together in Arabic. Andromache, were she on deck, would be able to follow but they have nothing to say now that would be secret from her. Sebastien's Arabic is coming along well enough but he cannot yet keep up with their fluid speed. There is very little chance anyone else on board would know the language. 

Inevitably, Josef's opening argument begins. "Eight-eight miles, Nico. You know as well as I do-"

"And if I did not then, I would by now," Nicolas jests lightly. But Josef is not in the mood to be dissuaded by jokes. "It may well have been deliberate," Nicolas offers, "invoking the Resurrection."  1

"More likely a sign that that the number is a fiction," counters Josef, "nobody we spoke to ever said eight-eight miles from anywhere!" 

"We didn't speak to everybody, there was a crew of almost three hundred, we couldn't find them all, you know this."

"We tracked down most of the officers. Including one of the navigators." 

Nicolas sighs. "Perhaps the man lied." 

Josef's eyebrow climbs and his lips flatten. _Lied_ asks the eyebrow, _to Andromache, in all her desperate rage?_

Nicolas turns back to his brushwork. 

"The book, it isn't even a contemporary account," Josef goes on, "Generations of opportunity for alterations..." 

Nicolas slops a brush full of hot smelly tar on the side of the yawl and spreads it methodically into the cracks. 

Josef is relentless in his argument. "And even if they did intend to drop her at precisely that spot - it's not as if they were cartographic experts then." 

The problem is, Nicolas knows all this to be true. As does Andromache. 

He sets aside his brush and turns imploring eyes on his beloved. "If there is a chance, Yusuf - the slightest chance - we cannot ignore it. I know you would not risk abandoning her." 

Yusuf makes a wide, offended gesture. Depth of affection for Quynh is not the issue here and they both know it. "No, of course we must check, but this - this is rushed and risky, as you well know!" 

Nicolas sighs, he cannot argue that point. "I do not like any more than you, but we have yet to name any true alternative."

And they had tried. But - sailing through to Genoa, taking unsavory mercenary work in order to earn enough money to hire a ship and a crew, sail out into the Atlantic, and, in a best case scenario, conceal that a living woman has been pulled from the depths? Hardly a solution.

Nicolas had wanted to find a way to make it make sense - to find a more tenable compromise. But, as Josef well knows, "the type of work we would need to get the money quickly would be no better, there is no less risk of exposure, the only difference is the additional time lost. Andromache will not wait. And Quynh should not need to."

A layered, unhappy silence falls. Nicolas chews his lip, feels the healing, and watches Josef. All his artist's skill, reduced to slopping tar in the cold Atlantic, when he would be anywhere else but for loyalty. 

"We could go to the island," Josef says, after some time, "perhaps there are records, we could find someone who knows the story..."

They have reached this point in the argument before - both still unswayed, yet imploring the other to understand.

"Finding that book…" Nicolas sighs, "it is a single needle in a single haystack among all the haystacks in France. Destiny moves here, Yusuf. We are being _guided_ to recover Quynh. This is our chance - how is it that you cannot see?" he ends on a near whisper. 

"All the haystacks for a hundred years, yes. But I cannot trust in the benevolence of fate," eyes shining with emotion, Josef pleads, "not when the risks are so great."

"And I must," Nicolas insists, "It is all we have to trust in."

They lapse back into silence. 

* * *

Richardson has captained vessels for much of his career, and he imagines he might chafe as first mate under a more pressing captain. But they have a solid trust built up between them by now, and so Briggs checks in early but spends the bulk of his morning with his wife and daughter. 

Though Richardson certainly enjoys his mornings in near-full command of the ship, he is dead tired by lunch. Being the oldest on board by nearly a decade - these days he feels the dawn shift in his bones. 

Captain Briggs joins him on deck just shy of noon, as usual. 

"Anything for the log?" asks the captain. 

"We measured six knots roughly two hours ago," Richardson reports. Briggs wrinkles his nose, but there is nothing to be done about it. You can't catch wind that doesn't blow. "But it has been a steady east all day." 

They spare a glance down at the glass-covered compass mounted to the helm, the notch is steady at just about three degrees above East. They'll compensate by tacking slightly south if they need to, but for now they're not anywhere near being pushed off course. 

"Nothing you'd like me to make note?" 

Richardson shakes his head, stifling a yawn. "Ready to walk the deck?" A long, uneventful shift and his pillow calls. 

Briggs waves him away. "I'll head below for a few minutes to update the charts and fill in the log, but I'll check in with Gilling first. You go and rest, Gilling can handle the deck for an hour then I'll take the helm." 

It was very gratifying to see Gilling taken on as second mate - he had made the suggestion to Briggs, who trusted his recommendation well enough to hire the young man on sight. None of Richardson's own sons followed him into the seafaring life, so he feels almost paternal, guiding Gilling in his new role.

Richardson smiles, grateful. "I will see you at dinner then, Captain." He salutes and walks down to the main deck. 

The captain has sent him to bed, but Richardson keeps an inspector's eye out as he passes through the ship to his private cabin. The two on deck are still bent over the yawl, but silently now. He doesn't like when they speak the Moorish language, but they haven't given him reason yet to forbid it. In fact, these two work very efficiently together, so he has set his discomfort aside, though warily. 

He rings the bell to change the watch and moves down into the belly of the ship, passing the Steward in the galley up to his elbows in scrubbing, and to much earned rest. 

* * *

There is always some racket when the watches swap, even in the dead of night. The bells wake everyone who is listening for them, and likely a few more besides. 

The midnight watch begins to drag themselves out of their hammocks and head up the hatch to relieve the evening watchers. 

Edward, on the other hand, moves further below into the galley. 

On a ship with a larger crew, there may have been some respite from the Steward's duties, but they are a small group and there is no one else to take the share. 

Each night after dinner is cleared, he leaves things as ready as he can without setting food out for the rats and roaches to feast upon. He cuts a few slices of salted beef, gathers the remainders of yesterday's raisin bread, heats a pitcher of coffee, and arranges it all together on a tray. One-handed, he carries it up to the deck, swaying in tune with the waves. 

The midnight watchers tonight are Josef and Gilling. They will be on deck until near dawn. The food is to keep them lively and because they will likely sleep through breakfast, once relieved by the morning watch. 

Josef sits under the lamp with his sketching book and charcoal. Gilling faces the opposite direction and has his playing cards all spread out. A different pair, Edward knows, might pass the time more companionably, but Gilling has made it quite plain he does not intend to mingle. 

They are grateful for the tray, and Josef bids Edward a quick return to sleep. 

He tumbles happily back into his hammock - it is still warm under his blankets, and receeds into sleep. 

He wakes not long after to a strangled cry. It takes Edward a moment to catch his bearing. It is dark, still. No bells are ringing, just the harsh gasping of a man terrified. 

"Sebastien?" someone has slipped from their hammock to approach him, Edward can make out footsteps on the wood, a figure moving in the low light. "Was it a dream?" 

"I don't want to be here, I want it to stop," the Frenchman whispers, "I want it to stop."

"We are doing what we can to make it stop, here and now. This is the most we can do." 

"I should be dead. I wish that I had died, that any of these last days had been my last. She drowns and I live and I drown again and again, every night..."

There is quiet. Arian, understandably, has no response to offer such wretched grief. 

He stands, an imposing shadow in the cramped space. "I am going to get a drink."

Arian stands alike. "No, Sebastien."

His voice begins to raise in anger, now. "I want a fucking drink, Andr-" 

A hard smack rings out through the night. 

"That isn't how it works on the ship. You know this. We discussed it."

"I don't give a shit how it works-"

He takes two unsteady steps in the direction of the galley, each footfall echoing loudly in the tense atmosphere. 

Arian is much smaller but Sebastian gives way easily when his path is blocked.

Edward strains in the dark to hear hissed words. 

"It is sheer luck that Gilling has the watch. You would be flogged, already, just for this, if he knew. And then what? Think of the consequences! Now get back to bed or I will put you there in two pieces." 

Sebastien is sobbing, now, a defeated slump to his shoulders. 

"I don't know if I can do this," he moans, "I don't know if I can handle it. The dreams..." 

He stumbles forward and throws his forehead down upon Arian's shoulder. Edward stifles a gasp, it is a far more intimate gesture than he expected. Of course, some sailors turn to each other for physical comforts, but it has never been so tender a thing as this, at least not to Edward's eye. 

Arian is stroking Sebastien's hair, now. "We will do it together. One day at a time. Sea air and hard labor brings sleep as well as any bottle, you will see." 

Edward feels ashamed for his eavesdropping, so he casts his eyes away. As they go he realizes he is himself being observed; Nicolas who has the hammock across from his is staring, not at the dramatic scene on the floor, but straight at Edward himself. 

Nicolas doesn't startle at being discovered, but Edward is mortified, twisting in his hammock so he is facing the other way, in his haste probably making it obvious to the room at large that he is not asleep. 

At the moment he does not care. He needs to be up again with the next watch to start the day's bread. 

* * *

1 The connection between the number 8 and the biblical resurrection I got from an essay called _Medieval Neumerology: A Breif Guide_. Eight and eighty-eight are also neurmerological representations of eternity, which seemed fitting. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the massive delay! Work deadlines then the election then Christmas but I read a book called _A Landlubber's Log of his Voyage Around Cape Horn_ from 1883, which has given me more confidence about writing daily life sailing details. 
> 
> Many thanks to Leaves_of_Laurelin and   
> Ahtohallan-calling for their help with the joe&nicky section! 
> 
> Anyone still reading - thanks so much! ♡


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